


Parabolic Motion

by EphemeralSonder (MermaidMayonnaise)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Birds, Flying, here be metaphors, narrative essay, so many geometry references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMayonnaise/pseuds/EphemeralSonder
Summary: I climbed trees because it was an exercise of both body and mind, but mainly because it put me nearer to the sky. I hung ropes and made spiderwebs, decorating my creations with crimson ribbons. I’d roost in my nest and listen to the wind blow through the leaves.
Comments: 2





	Parabolic Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Narrative essay due tomorrow. 1.22.20

When I was young, I wanted to fly. I knew I couldn’t grow wings, but that didn’t change my vision of it. Powerful muscles flexing in my upper back, wings flapping once, twice; feathers rustling in the wind under my wings as I soared. 

I played on the swings in my neighbor’s backyard and learned how to use momentum and gravity. I set up a challenge: I placed a stick some distance away to test if I could glide over it in a perfect arc. The optimal time to jump when I was at the apex, felt the twist in my stomach _.  _ I’d move the stick father until I’d jump distances that were multiple times my height. I remember the gusting wind, the weightlessness of the parabolic motion.

In elementary school, I started my first and only trend. Outside the school, there were hills where we had outdoor recess. In the winter, kids would bring their sled or pieces of cardboard and slide down the sole snowy hill, wear down the snow, and then skid on frozen mud. When most kids want to fly, they jump off from various heights yelling, _Mommy, look at me!_ Instead of a sled, my friend Gabrielle brought a plastic bag and ran down the hill, holding it like a parachute above her head. “It really works,” she swore. “I feel lighter.”

I tried her technique, which didn’t work.  _ I can do better,  _ I thought. I went home and found a hoarded square of cardboard. I painted it pink, added white swirls representing wind, then cut two hand-holds. I took it to school for a trial run on the big hill and tripped. I needed a gentler slope, a softer wind: there, across the schoolyard. 

I ascended and slipped my hands through the hand-holds. I lifted the contraption above my head like an absurd paraglider and ran down. I jumped, and for a millisecond I hung in the air. My hair whipped in the gales that rushed around me.

A curious crowd of my classmates gathered. I saw their heads tilted in confusion and I offered no explanation. But the next day, four children came back with cardboard. For three and a half glorious afternoons, the hill teemed with excitement. I was a loner, a misanthrope. But together we united in flight.

When I was in middle school, after years of being confined between the stifling walls of public education, I desperately craved the exhilaration of height again. My elementary school days were long gone, along with dreams of cardboard wings and snow. Middle school was a time of transition: I was nimbler and stronger, so I instead began climbing trees, my neighbor’s in particular. I hung ropes and made spiderwebs, decorating my creations with crimson ribbons. I’d roost in my nest and listen to the wind blow through the leaves.

I climbed trees because it was an exercise of both body and mind, but mainly because it put me nearer to the sky. Before I climbed a new tree, I scouted my options. When I deemed a tree suitable, I stood directly underneath and plotted my path through the tangles of branches. I’d climb, one foot after the other, arms straining; sweat dripping down my forehead, hair in my mouth. Sticks left long red scores along my arms, striped markings; leaves attached featherlike onto my clothes. I’d never reach the top of the tree, always a few branches shy since the thinnest branches wouldn’t hold my weight. I’d gaze through the buds of spring or summer’s lushness or the blaze of fall.

When I was in high school, I climbed a  _ stewartia pseudocamellia _ in the cul-de-sac; after I hoisted myself up the first branch, it was muscle memory. At one story, I was higher than the desiccated pine that stood stunted, a glimmer of its former glory. At two stories, I was above the neighbor’s roof, dislodging bark that fell in thick curly spirals.

Everything was quiet. Franklin Field, previously obscured, was scattered with trees; none as tall as mine. I breathed in, expecting the air to smell cleaner, but it was the same. I wanted to imagine that it was colder, but the mild spring sun still warmed my shoulders. The only change was the perspective of height. I presided over my domain.

A hawk whizzed by me close enough to touch: a black blur, gone. What fun to be at the same level as the birds, watching them circling in the vast expanse of sky. I shifted to the tree’s other side, displacing bark and leaves. 

Without my interference, everything was quiet and still. Nature always returns to its former glory, despite me putting up ropes and removing branches to tame it and make it my own. The same can’t be said about humans, the self-aware. The elementary school hills and trees that have already been climbed remain the same-- constant-- despite having been conquered. My motion is parabolic: always up and down the other side. But when I descend, I’m not who I was before. Change comes in increments. At the end of my motion, I’m reborn anew in flight.

Everyone experiences parabolic motion through events in their lives. During the descent, we must determine how we’ve changed during the journey. Because the experience fundamentally changes us-- not by much, but the difference  _ is _ there, underneath the down feathers. We’re constantly evolving. Even the slightest shift in perspective can be the catalyst for shedding our winter burden for summer plumage. And with each hop-skip-jump forward, we further ourselves. We change. We grow.

I eventually descended the tree, toes scuffing the soft dirt as I returned to earth-- to myself, but different-- and resumed my life, wondering who I would become next.


End file.
